


One More, With Feeling

by prettinessisnotarentyoupay



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, One Night Stands, One Shot, and the other boys aren't really in it, but not like sexually, peeing, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettinessisnotarentyoupay/pseuds/prettinessisnotarentyoupay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis didn't plan on getting fired, he didn't plan on going out, and he absolutely didn't plan on going home with the beautiful boy who started dancing with him. </p><p>So how did he end up on this couch, and why is there a dog?</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More, With Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, inspired by the personas of One Direction and is in no way, at all, a commentary or statement on their personal lives or preferences. Fiction. It's a beautiful thing.

“Please be fit. Please be fit”, Louis Tomlinson thinks, repeating it in his head like a mantra until it becomes absorbed into the pulsating beat of the dance music that blares throughout the club. The bass echoes in the soles of his shoes and in the pit of his stomach, which is currently being engulfed by two impeccably beautiful, and impossible large, hands. These same hands are steadily drawing Louis closer, until his back is pressed firmly into the stomach behind him as the two bodies move to the beat of the club’s house music. 

Louis hadn’t even wanted to go out tonight. 

Unlike some dark haired, overly tattooed boys from Bradford that he could mention, Louis did not view getting fired as a good enough reason to blow dry his hair, squeeze himself into his skinniest jeans, and then fork over £20 in cover charges just so he could dance with a stranger—even if that stranger had the most elegantly long fingers Louis had ever seen. 

“Oh God, please please be fit”. 

Louis had been too busy looking for Zayn to steal a glance at the person currently pressing himself against Louis. He had only been able to see a tall form brush up against him before he had felt a gentle tug on his hips and looked down to see those nimble hands slide around his waist and pull him closer.  
Ever the optimist, Louis had leaned back, allowing himself to be encircled by who he hoped was either David Beckham or David Beckham’s better looking, albeit fictitious, younger brother. 

However, after about thirty seconds of dancing with the stranger, Louis had realized that the chances of any of the Beckhams choosing a recent uni grad, rendered virtually jobless by virtue of his newly acquired art degree, who had only today been informed that he lacked the finesse apparently needed to wait tables, was remarkably slim.  
Stupid Zayn. Even now, Louis couldn’t suppress an eye roll at his best friend’s reaction to Louis losing his job. Especially since Louis had kind of deserved to get fired. But, honestly, was it his fault that literally the grumpiest old man this side of London had sat in his section—at a table for four—ordering nothing but cold water with no ice and three slices of lemon—in a separate dish, mind you—for four hours? Was it Louis’ fault that, after his fifteenth glass of water, the old man had attempted to surreptitiously sneak away, only to be confronted by a slightly (or extremely) harried Louis, who had then taken a piece of blueberry-peach pie (meant for table three but whatever) while saying, “after all that water you must be starving” and then accidentally setting the plate down a little too close to the edge of the table, so that it fell on the old man’s lap? Was that really Louis’ fault? 

Yes. Yes, it was. 

It was an unfortunate coincidence that the elderly man had turned out to be the owner of Paul’s Diner, had in fact been Paul himself; but Louis, unlike his now-former manager, tries not to get lost in insignificant details like that. 

So, yeah, getting fired was kind of his fault.

But Zayn showing up for his shift ten minutes early (which is itself a sign of the coming apocalypse) only to see Louis getting loudly dismissed by both their manager and a blueberry-peach pie covered Paul and then immediately deciding to quit in an unnecessary show of solidarity complete with a dramatic flinging off of his apron and a dismissive ‘fuck them’? 

Yeah, there was no way Louis was taking any responsibility for that. 

And it was just like Zayn, really, to forget that at least one of them needed to be working because renting a flat, even one as shitty as theirs, required money. But minute trivialities, like how they were going to live didn’t seem to bother Zayn too much. He had dismissed Louis’ very legitimate concerns with a smirk and an unperturbed shrug of his shoulders. 

Louis narrows his eyes as the pulsating lights of the club illuminate the bar enough so that he can finally spy a too-familiar leather jacket hanging off the back of a spindly chrome bar chair as its’ owner, looking impossibly good—and honestly, Louis loves Zayn to the ends of the Earth and back but he needs to start investing in some friends who aren’t the literal definition of tall, dark, and handsome—as he leans forward to chat with the kind-faced bartender who is pouring him a drink.  
The body that Louis is currently pressed against suddenly shifts as the unidentified man with the nice hands leans down to press his mouth against Louis’ ear and whisper, breath warm against Louis’ neck, “want to come back to mine?” 

Louis spins around at that, immediately wanting to inform this stranger that one dance does not entitle him to sex, no matter how lovely his hands are, and that hooking-up is something that Louis had promised himself that he will stop after university, along with his marathon sessions of FIFA, and his unfortunate penchant for braces and too tight skinny jeans. 

Honestly, Louis is an adult now with a degree in art, and even if that apparently does not mean he can be a semi-proficient waiter, it does mean that this new, grown-up, Louis has a little more dignity than the university lad who once sang a heart-wrenching rendition of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”, naked and very drunk, to the delight of Zayn and his seventeen YouTube subscribers. So, no, he most certainly did not want to “come back to mine” with this absolute stranger. 

That, however, is before Louis sees exactly who he has been dancing with. 

Because this person—the one Louis had prayed would be fit—is one of the most beautiful people that Louis has ever seen. 

As the flashing club lights dance across the taller boy’s face, they reveal dark brown hair that is curly and thick and has been pushed up into an endearingly haphazard, and somewhat lopsided, quiff, forming an almost-halo around his face. Louis would have been longing to run his fingers through it if he wasn’t so distracted by the boy’s perfect face. Louis almost can’t decide which feature he likes the most: his wide-set eyes, their color washed away by the club’s strobe lights, as they flicker appreciatively up and down Louis’ compact body, or his beautiful blunt nose that is lovely and large, widened and flat at the end, (Louis has always had a thing for tall lads with big noses), or is it his lips--his absolutely perfect lips that are neither too plump or too thin but seem to exist hovering in that infinitesimal space between comfort and heat. 

Louis was deciding that yes, in fact he liked the lips the best, when they part to repeat their owner’s question of ‘Want to come back to mine?” before they pausing and adding, hesitantly, “I live nearby”. 

And Louis finds himself nodding, because he does want to go home with this boy, he really really does. 

Dignity be damned. What does his new status as an unemployed uni grad really entitle him to if not one more meaningless hook-up with a boy with beautiful hair, eyes, nose, mouth—beautiful everything. 

After all, Louis has a good sixty to seventy years to act like a grown-up. One last night of shameless and athletic sex won’t change anything. He can always start being an adult tomorrow. 

With a somewhat lusty grin, Louis grabs the boy’s hand tightly and moves towards the exit of the club, sparing one last look at Zayn, now animatedly chatting with the kind-faced bartender who is grinning back at him shyly, while another bartender, this one with bright blonde hair, doles out shots for the three of them. Louis wills Zayn to look over and because they have been best mates for five years and flat mates for three, Zayn does, making eye contact with Louis and raising an eyebrow suggestively when he sees that Louis is clearly leaving the club with little intention of returning that night. With a parting wink, Louis heads out into the humid summer night, the beautiful boy’s hand snug in his own. 

\---  
The boy apparently does live very close by and it is only a handful of tense, sexually charged, minutes before Louis is being slammed against the front door inside of a foreign flat as the boy licks hotly into his mouth. God, Louis had forgotten how much fun a meaningless hook-up can be. He had forgotten the thrill of having a nameless stranger part your lips with their tongue so that they can trace the curve of your teeth. He had forgotten the almost-overwhelming wave of heat that washes over you when unfamiliar hands grip the sides of your face, making you pliant and yielding. 

And God, Louis has missed this. 

The boy’s long and lean body molds itself around Louis’ shorter frame and Louis is grateful for skinny jeans because he can feel the outline of the boy’s considerable cock, already hard, as it presses up against his own bulge. Louis’ hands move from being interlocked around the boy’s neck to slide down and grip his beautifully boney arse, drawing him even closer into the space between Louis’ thighs as he spreads his legs farther apart to accommodate him. The boy’s hands slip underneath the hem of Louis’ button-up, gently running his long and delicate fingers along Louis’ spine while his lips go from assaulting Louis’ mouth to sucking insistent love bites into the sensitive flesh under Louis’ left ear. 

Breathing heavily, Louis threads his fingers through the boy’s hair and hurriedly gulps in enough air so that he can croak out one of the few questions you need to ask in a situation like this: “bedroom or couch?” 

The boy pauses, raising his head from Louis’ neck to look at him; his green irises are almost completely invisible behind his pupils, blown wide with arousal. He looks Louis over and takes his hand from underneath Louis’ shirt to palm him through his jeans, feeling his hardened bulge, and grinning wickedly before replying, in a voice made impossibly deep and rocky by desire, “Bedroom, definitely bedroom.”

He gives Louis’ cock one more firm squeeze before sliding a finger through Louis’ belt loop and leading him further into the flat, past several closed doors, until they come to one at the end of the short hallway. Releasing his hold on Louis, the boy pulls the door open and with an oddly gentleman-like bow, he steps aside so that Louis can enter first. With a slight smirk, Louis walks into the dimly lit room and is about to take off his shirt (why not simply cut to the chase?) when he hears a somewhat grumpy growl emanating from the bed. He turns to see a rounded bulldog standing in the center of the boy’s bed, one leg raised in what appears to be mid-pee. 

“God dammit Don Draper! No!” the beautiful boy suddenly shouts as he moves past Louis to gather the now ruined sheets, and dog, off of the bed and place them onto the hardwood floor. 

“What have I told you about peeing on the bed? Honestly, I don’t know how many times I have to explain this to you. This is not yours, it’s mine” the boy scolds the dog and his exasperated tone makes Louis chuckle lightly as the dog gives a slight, and in Louis’ opinion, dismissive, snort before disentangling himself from the sheets and waddling out of the room. 

The boy runs a hand through his hair, which was already standing on end from Louis’ fingers, before turning to look at him shyly and murmuring, “sorry about that”. 

Grinning, Louis says, “S’alright, we still have the couch”. He pauses for a moment, casting a looking at the crumpled bedding on the floor before adding, “you should really wash those sheets though—the smell of dog piss is not as big a turn on as you would think.” 

The boy laughs weakly, shrugging his shoulders apologetically, before moving towards Louis and rushing into an explanation, “Don has recently developed a little bit of a control thing with his pee. I made Liam—my flat mate—walk him tonight and Don hates it when I can’t take him out myself since he needs a sense of stability and I’ve had him for forever and even though he doesn’t really seem like it, he is very emotionally fragile.” 

Louis can hear the dog’s asthmatic breathing from down the hallway and can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the thought that any animal who growls--and pees--with such purpose could be considered either needy or fragile. But the boy’s plaintive plea strikes a chord with Louis, who finds himself breaking one of his cardinal rules of hooking up and extending his hand to the boy, saying, “It seems wrong that I know your dog’s name and not yours. I’m Louis.”

Grinning, the boy grasps his outstretched hand and says, “Harry. Nice to meet you.” 

He holds Louis’ hand a beat too long and a charged silence follows in which Louis remembers that they had in fact come in here to fuck and not to discuss a dog’s passive aggressive urinary habits. Before their extremely enjoyable earlier activities can be resumed though, Louis has to know one thing, “So, your dog’s name is Don Draper? How did you come up with that? It’s very—powerful.” 

The beautiful boy named Harry quirks an eyebrow at Louis before saying slowly, as though confused by Louis’ confusion, “Well, my flatmates and I all watch that American show Mad Men, the one about the sixties with John Hamm?” 

Seeing that Louis is even more confused, Harry hurries to explain, “Have you really never seen it? It’s been on Netflix for ages. It’s the one where Don Draper is an advertising exec that shags a lot of women and wears gorgeous suits and spends the whole show looking handsome and confused? Well, anyway, we watch it religiously and when my mum rescued this baby bulldog and gave him to me a while back, I couldn’t settle on a name because nothing was good enough and then Niall—one of my flatmates who bartends at the club —suggested Don Draper. And it stuck because then we got to scold Don Draper for licking himself or shedding everywhere or weeing on the rug—“

“Or your bed” Louis threw in as an attempt to put the obviously babbling boy more at ease. 

“Right” Harry replied before sliding his gaze down to the pile of sheets that Don Draper had recently claimed for his own. He shifts uncomfortably, his gaze uncertain for a moment before looking up at Louis with a somewhat shy, but still excited, grin on his face, “How about this for a plan—these need to be cleaned pretty much immediately, otherwise the room will smell like piss for days. I have Mad Men. I have popcorn and we have all night to do…whatever we want.” 

At this, Harry glances appreciatively at Louis’ body and for a moment the heat—the instant and almost immediate attraction that had convinced Louis to ago home with Harry—is back, palpable in the small space between them. 

Harry clears his throat lightly before resuming, “we could watch one episode of Mad Men, at the most two, then I can spread you out on nice, freshly laundered, and dog pee-free sheets and we can resume our…originally scheduled activities?” 

Louis hesitates. Going home with an attractive, and nameless, stranger is one thing. Sitting on a sofa, eating popcorn and watching telly is something entirely different, something—intimate. Call Louis old-fashioned but he typically expects to be taken to dinner and adequately wooed before agreeing to watch TV and eat popcorn on someone’s couch. 

And yet, Louis finds something remarkably endearing about a boy who wears black skinny jeans and picks up strangers in clubs but at the same time has dimples and talks to animals like he expects them to talk back. Louis hadn’t wanted to go out tonight, he hadn’t wanted to be in that smoky and crowded club after being fired. Zayn had literally forced Louis into his clubbing jeans when all Louis had really wanted to do was sit on the couch and watch TV. 

And apparently, the universe had conspired to give him just that…with the added benefit of what promised to be some extremely hot sex. 

Lifting a hand to smooth his mussed hair (Louis wasn’t the only one who enjoyed some good hair pulling) he grins, saying, “Sure, why not? It’s not every day a bloke is promised popcorn and a shag on piss free sheets.” 

Barking out a laugh, Harry smiles broadly before bending down to scoop up the sheets and replying, “Excellent, I’ll just be a quick moment, go ahead to the couch and I’ll pop these in and get us some popcorn.” 

Which is how Louis finds himself sitting on a somewhat weathered couch, listening to Harry piddle around his flat, popping popcorn and humming to himself, while Don Draper alternates between glaring at Louis from his doggie bed in the corner and licking himself. 

Yes, Louis thinks, because when he agreed to come back to Harry’s, this is exactly what he had had in mind. 

\---  
“Um, Louis?” 

“Yes, Harry?” 

“Watcha doing?”

“Watching Mad Men, with you, on a couch.”

“Hmm—that’s weird since I am about 80% --no, make that 88%--certain that you are roughly six seconds away from giving me a hand job—hmm—or at least an over the jeans cock rub.” 

Louis looks down to where his fingers are toying with the zipper of Harry’s jeans. He can feel the heat emanating from Harry’s crotch and can’t help but give a slight, reflexive, shiver of excitement. Damn, he had hoped that his hand’s slow migration up Harry’s thigh had gone unnoticed during the three episodes of Mad Men that Harry had insisted they watch. Louis would have been annoyed but Harry had turned to Louis at the end of each one, grinning and barely able to contain his excitement, to ask him, “What did you think? Brilliant right? And it only gets better--watch.” 

The laundry had been finished one and a half episodes ago and frankly, Louis is less than impressed with this show filled with cigarette smoke and American accents. He is much more curious about the boy who is sitting next to him, one arm slung around Louis, drawing him closer and lightly running his fingers up and down Louis’ shoulder, while his eyes stay fixed to the screen, his perfect lips mouthing the dialogue in unison with the actors. Louis hadn’t wanted to disappoint this excited and enthusiastic boy next to him and so each time Harry had asked if the show was great, Louis had nodded excitedly and said, “Yeah. Yeah--it’s great”. 

He had actually stopped watching two episodes ago, instead concentrating on minutely maneuvering his hand from Harry’s gorgeously knobby knee and up towards his inner thigh, while simultaneously keeping an eye on Don Draper curled up in his doggie bed. It wasn’t until the dog fell asleep, snoring lightly, that Louis had started working on inching down Harry’s zipper with the subtlety and finesse rarely seen outside of Cold-War era diplomatic summits. 

Or so he had thought. 

Rubbing the back of his hand across the burgeoning bulge in Harry’s jeans, Louis asks, “Sorry, is that not okay?” 

Harry attempts a smirk but its’ effects are somewhat lost when Louis runs a single finger up and down Harry’s length, slowly, teasingly. Harry stutters a little before regaining his composure, “I, uh—I am not really in a position to refuse a hand job from one of the most gorgeous boys I have ever seen.” 

Well then. 

Grinning, Louis begins to unzip Harry’s jeans, asking, “Should I go ahead or…” he trails off, hoping that his finger’s insistent tug on Harry’s zipper is communication enough. Harry inhales sharply, his eyes still trained on the people flickering across the TV screen, before clearing his throat and nodding, “Erm, yes, please proceed. 

And so, Louis does. 

Having finally freed Harry from his restrictive zipper (Jesus, how hard must it be to get these jeans all the way off?) Louis licks his palm before sliding his hand into the opening of Harry’s pants to draw him out, a little hesitantly since this is the first time he has been excited about giving a hand job since his first year of university, and his skills may be a little rusty. He grasps Harry tightly, enclosing the width of him in his palm and experimentally moves his hand up and down, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye, trying to ascertain exactly what he likes. 

Harry is staring straight ahead, his lips slightly ajar and Louis can see only the barest circle of his grey-green irises, as his pupils grow more and more dilated.  
Quickening his movements and moving his thumb experimentally over the head of Harry’s cock, Louis decides that he likes the boy with the dark brown curly hair. He likes the way he talks to his dog and his gravely deep sex-god voice. He likes the way his lips can mouth the words to this random-ass show and he likes the way that Harry still has his arm flung across Louis’ shoulders. 

But Louis especially likes the somewhat strangled groan that Harry makes when Louis rubs his nail gently against the vein running along the underside of his length and suddenly, Louis’ hand is slick with pre-come. Harry’s head is thrown back with his eyes closed as he starts to stutter a warning of, “Um, I am about to…” before trailing off, which only encourages Louis to move faster and tug harder as he tries to ignore his own increased, insistent, swelling. Harry exhales sharply and Don Draper starts barking, even though Louis was sure he was fast asleep a moment ago, and then Louis looks down and suddenly there is white smattering Harry’s black shirt and Louis’ hand.

Louis takes a moment to regard the undone boy before him, and he decides that no one should look this beautiful so soon after coming. Harry’s hair is now in more disarray than ever, all allusions to a quiff have vanished and the heat radiating off of both their bodies into the small room makes the dark brown curls laying across Harry’s forehead much more pronounced. 

The slight sheen of sweat on Harry’s upper lip should not be a huge turn on for Louis. The way that Harry’s mouth hangs open as he inhales and exhales should not make Louis even harder than he already was. And the way that Harry’s chest rises and falls as he slowly comes back to himself should not make Louis’ pulse quicken in a way that it hasn’t since that time in sophomore year when his TA had asked him to stay late and then later had begged him to stay for breakfast. 

Typically, Louis would be a little worried about how much his body is reacting to this boy who is basically a stranger; he would be unnerved by the fact that he has been in this unfamiliar flat for over four hours now and all they have done is snog and watch TV and now this. Typically, Louis would be busy creating some excuse to beg off and go home. But in this moment, Louis’s mind has become focused on only one thing as he watches Harry slowly bring himself back together, and that thing is want.

Blinking unsteadily, Harry uses the hand not curled around Louis to reach for the box of tissues, conveniently placed on the table next to the couch. He hands a few to Louis so that he can clean off his hand and then wipes himself off somewhat awkwardly, using only one hand because he seems to be uninterested in letting go of Louis, before tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up his jeans. 

His smile is sated as he turns to look at Louis, who can’t resist grinning smugly. Harry presses a gentle kiss of thanks to Louis’ lips, before whispering “brilliant” and nipping lightly at Louis’ bottom lip. Louis can’t help but lean forward into the pull of Harry’s teeth. But then Harry is leaning back, grabbing the remote to mute the television before turning back to face Louis, his body now angled towards him and the space between them significantly diminished. 

Harry reaches one of his hands, one of the hands that just a few hours ago had been so foreign and yet so enticing as they lay stretched across Louis’ hips, to gently stroke the sensitive patch of skin below Louis’ left ear, right above the love bite that Harry had placed there when they had first entered his flat. His eyes settle on Louis’ for a moment, green and expansive and beguiling, and when Louis meets his glance, he feels as though he has just stuck his finger into a light socket, every nerve ending seems to be alive and buzzing. 

He has to repress his immediate urge to look away—to hide his face in the crook of Harry’s palm and avoid this direct eye contact, this thing that is absolutely not a one-night stand kind of move. Looking not simply at, but into, Harry’s green eyes is personal—and actually a little bit terrifying, in the most cliché way possible. 

Louis tries to stare back, to match the look of sudden intensity that Harry is giving him with one of his own. But maybe there is a reason why Louis has always preferred the quick and satisfyingly shallow one-night interludes. Maybe it’s because, when it’s all been said and done, there is something as scary as shit, something raw and vulnerable and unknown, about someone looking into your eyes and you choosing to look back even when you know that you might get a little lost.

Because Louis has definitely entered into unfamiliar territory and he is pretty sure that it is those green eyes—the ones that seem to hold a whole universe inside of them—that are leading him astray. 

Half of Louis wants to break all of his hooking-up rules and ask Harry personal questions--about his mother, and his dog, and the tattoos Louis spies peeking through the collar of his shirt--before curling up next to Harry and snuggling into the couch and watching as his long fingers link through his own until they both fall asleep. 

The other half of Louis is hard and has been for a while. 

Okay, maybe not half of Louis, that would be a little bit ridiculous and cumbersome, but definitely one-sixteenth of Louis is hard and a large part of him simply wants to take this beautiful boy by the hand, lead him into the bedroom, sheets be damned, and make him come again and again so that Louis can watch him fall apart and then put himself back together.

That part of Louis just wants to fuck because Louis is a firm believer that when a truly beautiful-looking person wants to take you home, it is a crime against nature to not make sure that some truly beautiful, or at the very least, some truly hot, shagging actually occurs. 

He is sitting on the couch torn between these two urges when Harry’s eyes shift from his own and settle on Louis’ neck. Louis can’t help but instinctually raise his neck a little bit, knowing that it is one of his best features. He shivers as Harry leans forward to press his lips to the space where Louis’ jaw hinges into his neck and Louis can’t help but card his fingers through Harry’s hair, getting a firm grip as Harry sinks lower, moving his lips slowly down, until he is tugging the buttons of Louis' shirt open to press hot-open mouthed kisses to the words that are written across Louis’ collarbone, tracing each letter of text with his tongue. 

And then Louis readjust his grip in Harry’s hair, pulling him up before he can continue his descent. Harry makes a slightly disgruntled noise and his brow is quizzical when he looks at Louis, a question forming on his mouth. Louis, mostly because he is afraid of exactly what that question might be, presses his lips against Harry’s, too passionately and with too much tongue to be considered decent and yet, there is an air of sweetness, a level of vulnerability, that was absent from their initial kissing, unabashedly lewd, against Harry’s door. 

As Louis sinks a bite onto Harry’s lower lip, he realizes that while he wants the anonymity and the sensation and pure pleasure, he also wants the comfort, the familiarity...the eye contact. 

And maybe that is why, after Louis is finished biting, he gently suck’s Harry’s lower lip into his mouth, soothing it. 

A low groan escapes Harry’s mouth, reverberating inside Louis’, as Harry shifts them so that they are lying horizontal on the couch, with Harry covering Louis’ body, their tongues intertwining in Louis’ mouth. Instinctually, Louis grinds up for a moment, finally giving his hard-on some of the attention that it has desperately begged for since Louis decided that Harry should get off first.

When Harry feels this pronounced contact, he breaks off their kiss to pant into Louis’ mouth, his breath warm and sweet-smelling as his fingers move to trace his jawline and then the curve of Louis’ lower lip before moving to the back of Louis’ neck and pulling him closer. He pulls Louis forward until their faces are only a hair apart. In a voice so rocky and deep that it makes Louis’ palm sweat and his heart stutter, Harry murmurs, “Jesus, you are so hard.” 

He grinds against Louis, watching as the added pressure makes Louis inhale sharply and squirm and suddenly Harry’s grin has become wicked and predatory as he breathes, “your turn” before closing the minute distance between them and pressing his lips hungrily against Louis’.  
,  
\---  
They never do make it to Harry’s bedroom.

After Harry had gotten Louis off, quickly, and with simply the thrusting of his hips and the deft work of his hands, Louis had half-heartedly offered to go, avoiding Harry’s eyes as he mumbled some poorly contrived excuse about needing to be up early to look for a job. Harry had simply laughed-- as though the idea that Louis would leave was completely ridiculous. 

And, maybe, it was. 

Instead, when Niall and Liam stumble in at five thirty, bleary-eyed and exhausted from their shift at the club, they are surprised to see Harry stretched out on their ancient couch, his taller frame curled around a slightly smaller one. 

Both boys are fast asleep, Harry’s mouth thrown open with drool pooling at one corner. A small satisfied smirk plays on Louis’ lips as, in sleep, he snuggles closer to him. Harry’s arm is thrown over Louis, who sometime in the night had grabbed his hand, pulling it against his chest, their fingers interlocked loosely together. 

Niall stifles a yawn and takes a step closer only to spy Don Draper perched precariously on one of the couch’s arms, glaring at the sleeping boys and lifting his leg to pee on Harry’s leg—in a last ditch attempt to mark his newly threatened territory.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic ever! So exciting, but also terrifying. Endless praise and first-borns to omghallie and toyouibestow for the edits, the comments, and the support.


End file.
